A woman drives by and screams, “I support our policemen!” and we are silent.

I want to ask her if she has a son.

I want to ask her if she’s afraid for his life when he walks down the street in the daylight.

I want to ask her if she’s ever looked at the world with eyes that aren’t cushioned in the comfort of white skin.

The woman beside me holds the sign as I shuffle my feet, blow on my hands.

Photographers step into traffic to get a stronger image, and when I blink at the flash I imagine the beef stew in the crockpot, my brother’s evasion, my facebook feed that explodes with black grief and white silence.

The hour ends and we smile. Shuffle around on the curb and hug friends and strangers.

‘Until next time’, we say. There’s truth in that. A man piles up the signs; one by one we hand them over.

‘See you later’, we say, knowing it will be too soon.

Share This

Comments

Naphtali, I have been thinking since you posted this about what poems can do (well, ok, I think about that lots anyway, but…)… Such rich complications abide in these few lines, and it makes me long for more poems, and wonder what it would be like to read poems about police officers’ families’ fear, since that fear too is real though used too often to excuse extreme and brutal behavior. What would, say. a poem story circle look like?

But also I think about that weariness of knowing that the struggle has no end in sight, and long for poems of what keeps us going? Thank you for this glimmer.